by Cyn Balog
7
“MOM,” I SAY BEFORE I’ve even opened the screen door to the apartment, “can you please explain to me why you thought it would be a good idea to leave your innocent daughter alone with a potential serial rapist?”
But then I realize that I’m talking to an empty room. The ledger is out on the kitchen table, and the ceiling fan has blown some of the bills onto the linoleum floor, but the plastic chair Mom usually sits in, whining and moaning, is empty.
I figure she’s probably gone to the bathroom to get a tissue to blow her nose, but as I walk farther into the room, I hear it: giggling, coming from her bedroom.
If you know my mother, you know that she is the most non-giggly person on Earth. She stopped giggling, I think, a little before my dad left, and never started again. She works sixteen hours a day, so she’s more of a businesslike, head-on-straight type, who only thinks of the practical. Which is why I have nothing but serviceable, lacking-any-semblance-of-style clothes to wear tomorrow. Goofing off, playing games, enjoying life—these do not exist in her world.
I stand in the doorway of her room and see her lying on her bed faceup. She’s twirling the phone cord in her hand like a teenager and saying, “Oh, but you don’t!” in some flirty tone I think should be reserved for paid escorts. Not moms. Ew.
Mom flirting is one of those arts that should be buried forever, like contra dancing.
But wait. Who is my mom flirting with?
She jumps up when she sees me, and her tone quickly turns businesslike. “I’ll talk to you later,” she says, and almost hangs up before she finishes speaking. Then she grins. “So!”
“Whatever, Mom. I’m not three. Who was that?”
“Who? Oh. The bagel deliveryman.”
“You’re dating the bagel delivery guy?”
She is biting her lip, kind of like a sex kitten. “What? No. I was just scheduling our deliveries for the fall season.”
“And flirting.”
“I was not,” she says resolutely, sitting down at her ledger. “Seriously, Gwen. I am too busy to flirt. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to be nice to our vendors. I don’t want him blabbing all over the island that we don’t bake our own bagels.”
“Oo-kay,” I say, even though I don’t believe it. We get a dozen bagels delivered every day and we usually end up throwing them out, because only a couple of people on the island eat them, and one of them is this senile geezer who vowed to write a letter to the governor of New Jersey decrying our establishment as anti-Semitic if we stopped supplying them. I need to let the flirting thing drop, because the fact that my mom might have a sex life is not something I want to think of right now. Actually, it’s not something I want to think of ever.
Of course, not wanting to think about something is a sure way to end up thinking about it. I try to wipe the image out of my mind, but I can’t remember the thing I wanted to talk to her about. Oh, right. Mr. Scary. Mr. Potential Rapist. “Um. Yeah. Why did you hire that guy? Did we officially kill off all the normal citizens of Cellar Bay? Or did he?”
She waves her hand at me. “He’s fine. He’s Melinda’s grandson.”
“He is?” I blurt out. Now that I think of it, it does totally explain why he doesn’t have a decent haircut.
She nods. “I’ll admit I didn’t know what to expect. Melinda just told me that her grandchild, Chris, was coming to town and really needed a job to get back on his feet again. And I think I owe her a favor.”
She’s admiring my atrocious haircut again. I reach into the refrigerator and pull out a Vitaminwater. “Get back on his feet?”
“I don’t know what she meant. It’s all ancient history, anyway. And I’m not going to pry. He just came to stay with Melinda because his mother is traveling in a show.”
“You mean the prostitute?”
“She’s in show business,” Mom says, correcting me, lifting her chin as if it’s the noblest profession ever. Unfortunately, my mom fails to realize that most traveling show people are psychotic, restless souls, many of whom have horns growing out of their heads or other freakish characteristics that make them worthy of an audience. And any offspring of a woman who wears skintight snakeskin dresses cannot be sane. Period.
I clear my throat. “Did you get references?”
“I don’t need references. Melinda is a good enough reference for me.”
“But do you even know anything about him?”
“Like?”
“Like how old he is. Whether he can handle money. Whether he counts decapitating small animals as one of his hobbies.”
She glares at me. “He’s eighteen. And he’s fine.”
“But he freaks me out,” I say weakly.
This comes out as a this-conversation-is-over growl: “Luckily, you will be in school and won’t have to deal with him.” And she turns back to her ledger.
Right. Luckily, I’ll be at school. Never thought I’d be saying that.
8
I’M SITTING IN THE BACK of the short bus, wanting to pee my pants. Not from fear, totally. Mostly because I was late, trying to tame my triangle into a normal, human-shaped head, and trying to see if any of the outfits I owned could ever exude coolness, if accessorized correctly. Thus, before I knew it, the bus was out front, and peeing was not an option.
For the record, my hair now looks lopsided, more like a rhombus, and it’s hard like a helmet, and no amount of fake jewelry can make an XXL Hanes sweatshirt look stylish.
Evie is in the front, chatting with Becca. We’re the only three people on the bus. My sister is bouncing her legs up and down so that her flip-flops smack against her heels. Smack-smack-smack. She blows a noisy bubble with her gum and grins excitedly, like she’s in her own musical and about to break into song.
For a second, I think maybe, maybe, maybe things won’t be as bad as I’ve feared. Maybe when my mom and I meet Wish at the airport tonight, I can tell him about the dozens of new friends who welcomed me into their open arms and how we all sang “Kumbaya” together. Then we cross over the bridge and I see the school looming in the distance, like the house from Psycho. Vultures are circling over it.
Then I wake up and see the crowds of students standing outside, waiting to be let in. They’re all huddled in their tight, impenetrable circles. For some reason, this reminds me of that goofy sex-ed presentation they showed in sixth grade, the one where the egg is standing firm while all these little sperm flutter about, trying to break in, constantly getting the brush-off. Yes, in this scenario, I am the sperm. Thespian egg? Denied! Chess club egg? Denied! Future Homemakers of America egg? Denied! I don’t even bother to go near the really popular eggs, because that would be spermicide.
When I step from the bus, I imagine that this is how soldiers on the front lines feel when they’re being shot at. I duck my head, avoid looking directly at anyone, and find a spot in a corner, near the building, where I plop down on the grass and pull out a notebook. I’ll pretend to read something important in it—which is kind of difficult, since it’s blank. It is the first day of school, after all. I find a pen in my purse, and the point hovers an inch over the paper for the longest time. What to write, what to write? Oh, yes. A list of things I need to bring into school with me tomorrow. Like what? I already have all the pens and notebooks I could possibly need; my ever-prepared mother had my bag packed and ready to go in mid-July. I look up for a second and realize that someone—I’m not sure who—is staring at me, no doubt thinking, “Well, well, well, what friendless loser have we here?” and getting ready to launch an attack, so I get nervous and write the first thing that comes to my mind.
Salami.
Where the hell did that come from? I don’t even like salami. Or anything remotely salami-like. I quickly scribble it out, so hard that I almost rip through the page with my pen point. Fine. I can just look through my bag for my cell phone, like I need to make an important call. Even though I don’t actually own a cell phone.
Suddenly I hear someone yell above the
noise, “Yo, baby!”
But it isn’t any ordinary “Yo, baby.” It’s in that horrible nasal Rick Rothman voice. And it’s really close by. I see a pair of filthy Vans backing up toward me. Rick may be one of the richest kids in school, but he has a way of dressing like he’s been raiding the nearest Dumpster. And he seems always to be walking backward, tossing greetings to his many admirers, completely oblivious to anyone who might be in his way. I freeze.
One of his mud-crusted sneakers steps right on my new khakis, leaving a nice footprint on my thigh. He nearly falls back, then turns to me. His eyes trail downward. “Yo, what’s up?” he says to me, almost civilly.
How do I answer that? I could say, “Nothing,” but that makes me look like a total loser who is up to nothing, which, even though it’s true, is the last thing I want to admit. I could tell him I’m listing lunch meats, but that’s even lamer. I could lie and say I’m writing a screenplay; that sounds cool. However, since my notebook is blank, he could easily see through that facade. A few seconds pass, and then I realize that I’m not saying anything, just staring up at him, like a deaf-mute, which is perhaps the most pathetic reaction of all. So I suddenly open my mouth and out comes this weird humming noise that sounds like a bee crash-landing on a windshield.
He doesn’t notice. He’s already yo-babying another bunch of girls across the green. This is probably like Christmas morning for him. I look down at the muddy footprint on my thigh as the crowd starts to funnel through the doors.
Ah, yes, school. The agony and the … more agony.
After making a pit stop at the girls’ room, I find a seat in the back of homeroom, hoping none of the people who like to cause a scene involving me and my ass, or another of my numerous large body parts, is present. The room begins to fill up; nobody looks at me, or if they do, they quickly drop their eyes. Nobody sits by me. I’m thinking it’s because I’m invisible when in walks Terra Goldbar.
Terra is a girl who thinks she’s much cooler than she actually is. She has bright red hair and a horsey face, and her laugh sounds like a lawn mower starting up. She joins every club she can fit into her schedule, and so she is friends with everyone—or at least likes to think she is. Oh, except me, but I’ll get to that part in a minute. It’s odd to watch her change the way she acts between groups; one second she’ll be discussing the works of Plato with the brains, and the next second she’ll be like, “Girl! That nail polish is, like, so fabu!” to the fashion mavens. One could call her the Chameleon of Cellarton. Well, except for the stoplight hair.
Unfortunately, she’s not fooling anyone. She doesn’t really fit into any of the groups. For instance, her observation on Plato will be “Didn’t he write that play about the guy who does it with his mother?” and the nail polish will be the most hideous fashion don’t since culottes on short fat people. I think everyone keeps her around for the amusement value. Because she’s so oblivious they can make fun of her and she won’t get it. Because she’s loyal like a puppy. Oh, and because she’s freaking rich and has completely absentee parents, so she has been known to throw the most mind-blowing parties Cellarton High has ever seen.
She tosses her Gucci bag down on the floor beside the farthest possible empty desk from mine. Since the room is pretty full, it’s a desk kitty-corner to mine, so close she can reach out and touch me. Still, she pretends not to notice me, turns to Erica Dunleavy in the next row, and says, way too bubbly for this early in the morning, “Hey, girl! You got a new tat! Fabuloso!”
So here’s why, out of all the students at Cellarton High, Terra picked me as the object of her wrath. She and Wish are cousins. More than just cousins. She writes comments on his Facebook wall at least once a day, usually starting with “Hey, favorite cousin!” And no “favorite cousin” of hers should associate with the likes of me. I think she’s disgusted with me because in all my years, I’ve never had a birthday with a petting zoo, or a bat mitzvah with a robot fortune-teller. Even though his Facebook page says “In a Relationship with Gwendolyn Reilly,” she doesn’t get it. Maybe she thinks Gwendolyn Reilly is a figment of his imagination. If I ever went up to her and told her that Wish was my boyfriend, she’d probably have one of those brain meltdowns and start sputtering, “Does not compute! Does not compute!” So she has done well all these years just pretending I don’t exist.
I look over to see them both admiring a purple blotch on the top of Erica’s foot, right under the strap of her white flip-flops. Erica has this rough-voiced, mysterious, Harley-riding sex-kitten thing going for her, which means she is my polar opposite. And she’s had a reputation since before I stopped playing with Barbies. There was a rumor going around sixth grade that her father had come home one afternoon and found Erica making out with her new boyfriend, topless. I can almost believe it, because even though we were only twelve then, Erica already had the kind of rack one wouldn’t mind showing off.
She says, “Yeah, I got it from a local when we went to Fiji. It means ‘peaceful journey.’ ”
Is it wrong that I hope the local gave her a symbol that means “I have to pee” instead? Or “spoiled rich American teen hoochie”? I start to giggle to myself; then I have to stifle a snort. I guess I don’t suppress it well enough, because Terra turns to glare at me. Well, at least she acknowledged that I exist.
“Oh, hey,” she says to Erica, talking a mile a minute. “Did you hear about Wish?”
Obviously, seeing me has sparked the mysterious Dough-Wish connection in Terra’s brain. Erica nods, and for a second my heart does a free fall. I knew it was a lost cause hoping that when he came to school, nobody would remember him, that he would be just another faceless nobody like me. After all, though he hasn’t been around in four years, he still knows the people of Cellarton High better than I do, judging by all the messages they leave on his Facebook wall. But Erica? She can barely remember her own name. This is not a good sign. “Yeah, where is he? I thought he’d be here.”
“His plane got delayed or something,” Terra says. “He’s coming in tonight.”
Erica gives one of her famous sly grins. “I can’t wait to see him. He looks so hot in his pictures.”
I slide down in my seat. Well, yeah, four years ago, Wish was awkward and gangly, and the pictures of him now are a definite improvement. There was no question in my mind that Wish would be higher-shelf than me. But he’s not supposed to be right there on the top! If Erica, gorgeous Erica, thinks he’s hot, what does that mean for me? My best hope now is that he got glamour shots taken of him out in L.A. that make him look extremely hot, but in reality he is a puny little booger with acne and bad breath. How pathetic am I that I want a boyfriend with bad breath?
Terra flips her red hair. “I wanted to see if anyone would come with me to meet him at the airport tonight. As a welcome-back surprise. So far I have like twenty people. You coming?”
Erica nods. “Why not?”
Wait, wait. No. My mom and I were going to meet Wish at the airport. That was the plan. I’d imagined the whole thing: Wish hurrying up the ramp with a bag slung over his shoulder, then dropping it and running for me. He would take me in his arms and twirl me around. Okay, maybe not twirl me, but just pick me up. Okay, maybe not pick me up, but give me one momentary heave-ho so that my sandals fell off and my cute little pedicure, the only thing cute about me, showed. Airport lighting makes people look like the dead, yes, but there was a chance he’d be so jet-lagged he’d think Mrs. Potato Head was hot. And maybe if I shoved my feet in his face, first thing, he would be so mesmerized that everything north of them wouldn’t matter.
Terra goes right on ignoring me, making plans to pick Erica up at whatever time tonight, and meanwhile, my first twinge of disappointment fades and I’m left feeling … relieved. Because if they’re going to be his welcome committee, I don’t need to be. And if I don’t go, then I won’t see Wish tonight. And if I don’t see Wish, I don’t have to worry about my biggest fear: his face distorting in anguish as he screams, “No, no! You ate my
Gwen!”
Which is actually more believable than his being able to pick me up and twirl me through the airport like I’m Julie Andrews.
My breath catches when I hear Erica say, “He’s not going with anyone, is he?”
And here’s the best part: Terra shrugs and says, “No, not that I know of.”
I didn’t expect her to say, “Why, yes, I hear he’s with her,” and point me out. I mean, maybe she really doesn’t know who I am.
But then she says, “He never talks about anyone, anyway.”
Hello? What part of “In a Relationship with Gwendolyn Reilly” is in any way unclear?
Maybe Terra is just saying that he never talks about me to rip my little heart to pieces, but part of me also thinks it could be true. Maybe Wish never does talk about me. But why would he, to someone who hardly knows I exist? Seriously, Dough, in his past few emails he’s been so excited to see you, I tell myself. He even had a little countdown of the hours and minutes and seconds in there, like a total nerd. He’s not ashamed of you. Not yet, anyway.
The imprint of Rick’s sneaker on my thigh looks even darker now. I rub at it, but it doesn’t help. Not that it matters. I’m probably going to get stepped on a lot more today, so I might as well get used to it.
9
ON THE WAY HOME, I have the bus to myself. Well, I do have a companion; I’m sitting with my stack of books, which seems to have a life all its own. It’s a good thing I’m not going to the airport tonight, because I have so much homework that I couldn’t fit everything in my backpack and had to carry some books in my arms, which nearly killed me. I made it to the bus, huffing and puffing, but the bus driver didn’t see me. She closed the doors on me, and now I have two black marks on my shoulders from the rubber. Evie and Becca are nowhere to be found, meaning two things: 1) they found some seniors to give them a ride home, and 2) I am officially the only living dork on the island of Cellar Bay.